


But She Kissed Me Like She Meant It

by wardo_wedidit



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Clubbing, Dancing, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Genderswap, Morning After, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>It’s all just foreplay, really, because they both know that Harry’s going to do that thing with her eyes that Nick finds impossible to resist and then they’ll both be out on the dance floor like idiots.  Harry has that way about her, of getting Nick to do just what she wants.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	But She Kissed Me Like She Meant It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [put it on my record](https://archiveofourown.org/works/735991) by [temerity (forsanethaec)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsanethaec/pseuds/temerity). 



> I swear to God, yesterday I had never read 1D fic in my life and now this. Hopefully it's out of my system now. 
> 
> Basically, I read the above and a three-quarters of _[The Miseducation of Harry Styles](http://junkshop-disco.livejournal.com/45151.html)_ and I have no self control. Also, Annie is a witch.
> 
> (Pretty sure there are a million other fics in this fandom with this title or similar, but mine is inspired by [Gabrielle Alpin's gorgeous cover](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coq8ppTUoXY&feature=share&list=SP1CA6335E0D3699B6) because _sexy lesbians!_ )

As a DJ, Nick has a sort of objection to clubs on principle. 

It can’t be coincidence that despite the fact they have so much at their disposal, they always end up playing the shittiest tracks available to them. A bastardized version of so-and-so’s hit single that has been remixed past the point of no return, now rendered unrecognizable, all in the name of that annoying thump-thump-thump base. No, it’s clearly a grand conspiracy to drive her insane. 

There’s also the fact that she doesn’t really like to dance. 

Like, yeah, go there to get plastered with your mates and whatnot, have a laugh, make drunken phone calls you’ll entirely regret in the morning, but that circles back to the problem of the too-loud techno remixes which makes it near-impossible to hear anyone, and there you are. 

She would dance if she was any good at it, really. 

This is a fact that Harry will not accept. 

See, the thing is, despite being an internationally famous pop star who tours the globe with four other bandmates who all claim to be terrible dancers and constantly make fun of that bit of themselves with tragically outdated, highly choreographed moves to make their audience laugh, Harry can actually dance when she wants to, and be quite good at it. 

Tonight she wants to. 

“C’mon, you promised last time, Nicky!” she says, using the nickname just to get under her skin and pulling on Nick’s arm playfully, long chestnut curls falling all around her face, laughter curving around her mouth, which she tries a moment too late to school into a pout. Nick shakes her head, red-as-sin nails clinking on the side of her glass. 

“I did nothing of the sort.”

It’s all just foreplay, really, because they both know that Harry’s going to do that thing with her eyes that Nick finds impossible to resist and then they’ll both be out on the dance floor like idiots. Harry has that way about her, of getting Nick to do just what she wants. 

“ _Pleeeeease_?” she asks, drawing it out, batting her eyelashes and looking up from underneath them, because she knows that always makes Nick shiver. 

Nick heaves a put-upon sigh and throws back the last of her drink, mouth twisting a little at the bitter heaviness of it. “Alright, alright,” she acquiesces, and Harry lets out a “yay!” and grabs her wrist, leading them both out there. 

And yeah, the further you get out onto the dance floor the sweatier and more awful it gets, really, but Nick knows that Harry would rather be in the middle of things where there’s less of a chance of anyone snapping a photo with their iPhone, which is fine. It helps that Nick is maybe just a little bit this side of drunk, no more than heavily tipsy, really, so she definitely won’t put up a fight. 

They’re playing a song that Nick would normally recognize but is too drunk to put that much effort into, at the moment, and it doesn’t matter because it’s a terrible track anyway. Like she said, fucking clubs. 

It doesn’t really matter though, as Harry turns around. The flashing lights are really obnoxious, on most occasions, but tonight they do something kind of lovely for the way that Harry’s dress spins out as she turns to face Nick. It’s black, strapless, in a way that, frankly, does _amazing_ things for Harry’s tits if Nick does say so herself. There’s a little bit of body to the skirt, which is short, no two ways about it, which shows off Harry’s long, long legs. Between that and the skin of her collarbone, her shoulders, the long line of her neck, Nick kind of just wants to run her hands (and tongue) all over Harry. 

Harry rolls her eyes like she knows what Nick is thinking but there’s a fond edge to her smile which makes Nick’s heart quicken. She’s not having any of that tonight though, obviously, because she turns again and presses her back all along Nick’s front, a long line of heat. She throws her arms up above her head and starts dancing, all close and sweet-smelling, like the light scent of perfume that she sprayed on earlier and also a little bit like whatever she had to drink, the tang of alcohol. 

Nick is gripped by a possessive rush that she doesn’t usually let overtake her, because it’s quite a silly instinct, really, when your girlfriend is frequently dubbed the current “sexiest pop star” by everyone in England and the rest of the world besides. But tonight it does, and she’s going to blame it on having one too many and tomorrow it’ll all be fine. 

She starts to dance too, reaching forward and grabbing Harry’s hips with both hands, digging her red nails in just lightly so that she hears Harry’s breath catch. Then she leans forward just a little, enough to lightly nip at Harry’s earlobe. 

It’s hard to hear anything in here but Nick has always been highly attuned to Harry’s--well, her _everything_ , really, which is why she thrills when she hears Harry let out a little ghost of a moan, lost in the noise of the thumping bass and screeching vocals. Nick presses her crimson lips right above the top of Harry’s spine, admiring the perfect little imprint she left there, and listens to Harry’s responding little gasp. 

“ _Haz_ ,” she sing-songs, still dancing but running her hands all along Harry’s everything, cataloging the way she shivers. “You ‘bout finished?”

Harry spins around and stops centimeters from Nick’s lips, her own pursed and hot pink and so, _so_ tempting. “You are a menace,” she whispers, twining her arms around Nick’s neck and pressing so close that Nick can almost feel the beat of her heart. “We’ve barely started,” she continues, not quite a whine, but Nick just quirks an eyebrow at her and Harry groans, leaning in. 

Just as Nick thinks she’s going to get a kiss (and yeah, she hates bars and dance floors and all that but making out with Harry in either or both would _exponentially_ improve either of those locations), Harry pulls away at the last possible minute, smirking. “You win, let’s go.”

So that’s how Nick ends up laughing wildly, stumbling out of the club and into the flash of a million cameras, which they had really quite forgotten about after the escapades inside. It doesn’t really give them much more than a moment’s pause--Harry’s bodyguard sweeps in quickly and herds them into a cab, giving the driver the address to Nick’s flat. Nick is glad that she doesn’t have to think too much about any of it, is too busy concentrating on the way that Harry is thumbing at the ridge of her collarbone, black painted nail glittering in the overhead light. She’s currently sucking a mark into Nick’s neck, utterly ignoring the driver, which makes Nick hiccup out a laugh. 

“Love,” she murmurs, two fingers turning Harry’s chin so she can see her face. “You might want to wait a bit.”

Harry rolls her eyes. “You started it,” she replies, relaxed and a little smug but not unfairly, turning back, but Nick can tell she’s smiling from the cold press of teeth against her pulse point. 

It’s one of those nights when they’re kissing messily before they even make it through the front door, hands spilling and caressing everywhere, too frantic and too fast. “C’mon, c’mon,” Harry pants between kisses as Nick presses her down onto the bed, hands scrambling fumblingly at the zipper at the back of Harry’s dress. 

Nick shushes her, faux-serious, and Harry bubbles out a laugh like champagne, fizzy and decadent. She finally gets her out of the damn thing and runs her hands down skin, watching goosepimples crop up in her wake, relishing Harry’s whine. Nick kisses her neck and then down her chest, struggling with the clasp of her bra in the back while she thumbs over her hipbone, right above her hot pink lace panties. She bites each nipple gently to hear Harry cry out, sharp and surprised, and then continues downward, admiring the trail of sticky red lipstick marks she leaves in her wake, fingers following lips. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” Harry laughs breathlessly as Nick dips her tongue into Harry’s bellybutton, smirking, dipping her thumbs into the elastic of Harry’s panties. 

“Wanna bet?” she asks, just as smug, and then they don’t say much for a while. 

//

The next morning is Saturday, and since, you know, Radio 1 Breakfast Show and all, Nick always sleeps in on Saturdays. 

She wakes to the smell of coffee wafting into the bedroom, eyes fluttering open, only mildly disappointed to find the other side of the bed empty, which makes a morning go-round quite impossible. She does, however, smell food, which makes it alright. 

Nick pads over to the bathroom, skipping over her discarded, inside-out black skinny jeans and cutoff, midriff baring silver top to grab her fluffiest bathrobe off the hook on the back of the door, rinsing with a mouthful of Listerine and then following the smell of eggs into the kitchen. 

Harry’s leaning against the countertop, mug in one hand as she enters. “Morning,” she says, smiling slow and sweet the way she usually does, a little bit like she has a secret. 

Nick just grunts a little, eyes narrow, pretending to be a little more overwhelmed by morning than she truly is because she knows Harry thinks it’s cute when she does that. Sure enough, she earns a quiet chuckle for her trouble. She fixes herself a coffee and eyes Harry out of the corner of her eye, sidelong. 

She’s just looking out the window, a little bit contemplative. It’s one of those hazy, overcast mornings and it looks like fall is starting to nip in, a chill in the air. Harry’s showered, clad herself in blue leggings and an oversized sweater that has _got_ to be handknit by someone, and she’s stolen some of Nick’s long socks--she can tell because they’re maybe just one size too big, maybe a half--and she’s done that thing where she’s folded them over, which always makes Nick roll her eyes. She’s piled all her curls atop her head in a floppy, messy bun, and Nick smiles despite herself at the way that her mascara and eyeliner is still all smudgy around her eyes, even after a shower. There’s a perfect lipstick mark around the rim of her mug, light pink, and something shivers through Nick to know that she has marks just like that, albeit a slightly darker color, on her inner thighs.

Nick plops in a dollop of milk and a little sugar, taking a sip, and then goes to press herself along Harry’s back, resting her chin on Harry’s shoulder. She can see Harry smile in the reflection of the window and sighs, content. 

“You still have glitter in your hair,” Harry remarks, spinning around and hooking her arms around Nick’s waist. 

Nick opens her mouth for a snappy retort, frowning, but before she can manage it Harry’s holding her face in one hand and kissing her. 

She guesses that’s good too.


End file.
